


Impress Me, Good Luck

by mushroomnoodles



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom!Pete, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Jailbait!Patrick, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Semi-Public Sex, Top!Patrick, Underage Drinking, take this to your grave era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomnoodles/pseuds/mushroomnoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete tries to get Patrick drunk just to find out he's way more experienced than he thought...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impress Me, Good Luck

May 6th, 2003.

The managers and staff of Fueled By Ramen popped a champagne bottle; everyone who was somewhat involved in the making of the album, technicians, producers - so, actually, anyone who’d be making money out of it - rushed towards the alcohol. Out of the band, only Joe and Patrick stayed on their seats, still too young to drink.

Enthusiasm was all around: it leaked out of the conversations of the crowds, and it was full of expectations and resolutions; Fall Out Boy was finally a band with music on the market. They were a promising group and their record company knew it. Fresh faces, with their dark-and-endearing-looking bassist, their malleable-voiced singer, their angry songs and suggestive lyrics and smart titles.

There were a lot of compliments. Patrick was keeping track of the people who shook his hand and congratulated him, and after the twenty-second one, he started to feel tired. He felt uncomfortable claiming this, but he was so bored.

He’d been waiting for this day forever, actually. They finally had an album out. They were almost there,  _success_  was almost there, and Patrick was proud of himself. He would have liked to have a little more time to fix the last details on the album, but it didn’t change the fact that now the first cd of his band was in stores and people would buy it and listen to it and maybe enjoy it, even. It was a dream come true to him.

Patrick had every right to feel happy and excited, but now he was tired and bored and just wanted to go home, throw himself on his bed and switch the tv on, waiting for Fall Out Boy to climb the charts. It wasn’t too early to dream, was it? 

Pete’s figure appeared in front of him and interrupted his thoughts. His face was sweaty and he had two full glasses in his hands. Patrick knew it was alcohol (he could tell just by looking at his friend’s face) but wasn’t sure about what it was exactly.

“Vodka, lime and blue curaçao. Want any?” Pete said, handing him one of the glasses. There was a bright blue colored liquid inside, pleasant to look at, but clearly artificial. Patrick shook his head.

“I can’t. Underage.”

It tempted him, actually. It was a nice-looking cocktail and he could drink it because - well. It was so blue. And he was very bored. Actually, he could accept. No one would know.

“Neither Joe can’t, but he gave in.” Pete pointed at their bandmate across the room, who was talking to some people and making exaggerate gestures. He was holding a glass that looked like one of Pete’s. “I’m not gonna tell your mom, I swear.”

Pete’s voice sounded so serious it almost shocked Patrick. The boy shrug and grabbed the drink Pete had offered him, then he took a sip, and, oh, it was strong.

“So?” 

“Not bad.”

“If you aren’t used to it, drink slowly.” 

Patrick held back a grimace at the second sip. He wasn’t used to it,  _at all_. 

He started feeling hot.

He was about to have a third sip, but hesitated when his lips brushed the edge of his glass. He gazed at Pete through his lashes, over his glasses; he was smiling, amused, at the singer.

“Hey, don’t finish it right away. I’m not bringing you another one.”

“One is enough, thank you so much,” Patrick rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, one’s enough…”

Patrick took another sip, decisively this time, trying to drink as quickly as he could. The expression on his face betrayed the sting in his esophagus; he closed his eyes shut and said nothing for a moment, waiting for that strange feeling to disappear.

Pete laughed; it was a much noisier laugh than the ones Patrick was used to hear.

He felt the heat reach his cheeks. He wasn’t sure whether it was because Pete was making him uncomfortable or only a side effect of the alcohol.

“You’re tipsy already? Is this even possible?” Pete was literally  _dying_  from laughters. “For fuck’s sake, Patrick!”

Patrick could feel his clothes get all sticky against his sweaty skin; his head got lighter and lighter…

Thinking suddenly became the most difficult deed ever. The boy tried to look in control anyway.

“No, Pete. I’m alright. You underestimate me.”

“Yeah?” His expression was serious again. He raised an eyebrow at Patrick. “You don’t look like it.”

No one said anything for several seconds: Patrick preferred not to utter a single word – he didn't trust his own mind right now – and Pete seemed absorbed in his thoughts.

Then the bass-player broke the silence.

“Want me to get you a shot?”

“A – what kind?”

“Absinthe. It tastes very good but I can’t really tell what they flavor it with.”

Patrick knew absinthe was very strong and that he should say no. He knew his body wasn’t used to metabolize alcohol; then something hit him. He hadn’t eaten yet. That’s why he was handling it so badly.

Anyway, he felt a little more sober than before – hey, his thoughts were making sense now, more or less. He thought he might be getting used to it.

He lied his eyes on Pete. He was waiting for an answer, his dark eyes fixed on his own; his forehead was still sweaty, his mouth curved in a half-smile, arms crossed on his chest and his body weight shifted on one leg. He looked like he was challenging Patrick. 

“Yeah. Get me a shot.”

Pete smiled, satisfied, and bit his bottom lip as he turned towards the open bar.

Patrick swallowed everything that was left in his glass at once; then, he breathed in and forcefully put the empty glass on the nearest table. The heat was unbearable and, when Pete came back with two baby blue shot glasses in his hands, Patrick was fluttering his hand in his face as if it was a fan.

“Here.” Patrick grabbed his shot. “Ready? One, two… Three!”

Patrick swallowed his absinthe and his head felt like it wanted to fly away from his neck. “Wooh. Wow.”

Pete kept his eyes on him. He didn’t drink his shot, but Patrick just couldn’t ask him why. His body didn’t look interested in collaborating with his brain.

“Here you are,” Pete handed him the other glass, too. He was still smiling.

“Is - isn’t it yours?”

“No, I’m pretty tipsy already…”

“Hey but…” Patrick was struggling to stand. Not to mention his thoughts – they just went freely. For example, now, he was thinking about the tattoo on Pete’s chest – the thorn necklace. He couldn’t see it as it was covered by clothes, but Patrick would have loved to admire it now. He wasn’t sure why.

“What?” Pete brought him back to reality.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Why?” Frankly, Patrick couldn’t care less about the answer to that question. He only wanted to run his fingers along the thorn necklace.

“I don’t wanna get you drunk – I just want you to have fun. Make you get rid of your inhibitions…” Pete wetted his lips and Patrick stared at them.

“Inhibitions…” Patrick echoed. He just couldn’t stop looking at the bassist.

“Are you inhibited, now, Patrick?” his voice was low, almost a whisper. The shot was no longer in his hand and Patrick wondered who drank it. He had a feeling it was himself.

The singer’s gaze shifted to Pete’s eyes. “No, I’m not. I’m just very hot… and my head is spinning.”

“Do you wanna get out of here? Come with me?” Pete offered him his hand and Patrick took it. Now he wanted to lick it – lick the thorn necklace. He wondered if he would feel the sharpness of the thorns, if his tongue would bleed. “Let’s go.”

Pete led Patrick to the back of the building; it was dark and isolated. Just the two of them, Patrick was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and his head in the clouds and Pete was kneeling in front of him, so close that Patrick could feel his breath against his cheek. It smelt like alcohol.

“Pete?” Patrick’s voice was deep.

Pete withdrew a little, so that he could listen to him.

“Can I see your thorn necklace?”

The bassist unzipped his hoodie, revealing naked, dark, inked skin.

“I’ll show you better if you allow me to kiss you.”

If the singer’s mind had processed that sentence, he would have been shocked. It didn’t happen often, that handsome Pete Wentz asked him to kiss him, and it wasn’t something Patrick had considered.

Now, however, his brain was out of order and the singer could only rely on his impulses and instincts and feelings. So he accepted.

Pete didn’t waste any time and put his lips on his, warm and full, delicate and soft. Patrick had kissed boys before, but Pete was different. He emanated something new. Patrick wasn’t used to such a skin and taste and smell.  
Then Pete pressed his tongue against Patrick’s lips to make him open them. Patrick allowed him in; he started exploring every inch of his mouth. He wasn’t light-hearted. 

Patrick was even hotter than before; anyway, he realized all his blood was flowing into his crotch area.

One of Pete’s hands was resting on the singer’s jaw, the other was on his hip; Patrick had both his arms on his friend’s shoulders, wrists crossed behind his head. The more Patrick felt the kiss, the more Pete felt confident, knowing that the other boy wouldn’t stop him. He moved the hand on Patrick’s hips to his thighs, and then it reached his inner thigh, closer and closer to…

“Pete,” Patrick broke the kiss abruptly. “Just ‘cuz I’m a lil tipsy, it doesn’t mean you can harass me.”

Pete’s face resembled the most sincere shock, and maybe mortification, too.

“Sorry, I thought…”

Patrick burst out laughing. Really, he had just mortified Pete Wentz. Only a drunk Patrick could do it. “What’s up, why are you laughing?” Pete didn’t look amused. Patrick straightened his face.

“When you were talking about inhibitions… you meant this?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it does make sense. Now I want to give you a blowjob, and If I was sober, I don’t think I would do it.”

“Wait - what?”

“Your thorn necklace. Show it to me, please.” Patrick fluttered his eyelashes twice and pouted, suddenly confident and horny as fuck. He knew he had Pete in his hands.

Pete got up, finished unzipping his hoodie and took it off. Patrick followed him and walked towards him until they were close enough to share a kiss. He looked intently at the tattoo and brushed at it with his forefinger; after he had made sure it wouldn’t make him bleed, he replaced his finger with his tongue. He tasted like sweat and sex and sadness and need. When he reached his neck, he nibbled it with lips and teeth, and Patrick alternated between small bites and hickeys. Pete was staying still, but Patrick could feel the blood pumping in his carotid and suppressed moans escape his mouth. He then cupped his friend’s bulge, and noticed Pete wanted him at least as much as he wanted him. 

He decided it was time to suck his cock. He lowered his face again and licked his chest, leaving kisses all over it, following the thorn necklace; then he got to his abs, and all the way down to the tattoo on his lower abdomen, half-covered from his pants still tight around his waist. Now Patrick was on his knees, his face a few inches from Pete’s belt; he unbuckled it and put everything down, leaving Pete all exposed for him. His erection looked painful and desperate and it was Patrick’s mission to do something about it. 

He kissed the tip and closed his hand in a fist at the base of Pete’s dick before running his tongue along the whole length. Pete hissed and Patrick took the whole head in, and the impatience Pete showed in taking his hat off to sink his hands in his hair encouraged Patrick. He was ready to take him all in, he was ready to choke on him.

He relaxed his throat and his lips got closer and closer to his fingers, still on the base of his cock; Patrick was  _full_  of Pete, who was desperately trying to resist the urge to move inside his friend’s mouth not to suffocate him. Actually, Patrick wouldn’t mind having Pete fuck his troath, but Pete could not know this…

He sucked once, twice, pumping his head and never freeing him from his lips. Only when Pete sounded breathless and started tightening his fingers in his hair, moans more frequent, Patrick let go of him.

“If only I had lube, I would fuck you like there’s no tomorrow…” Patrick breathed. He was out of breath.

“Patrick there’s no… there’s no need for lube. I can take it, but, please… fuck me.”

Patrick could feel the heat gather in his stomach and his breath got caught in his troath when Pete begged for him like that, so needy, so desperate to come. The singer grunted and unbuttoned his pants quickly.

“You sure? I don’t wanna hurt you,” Patrick stroked his own dick twice, to get ready; Pete looked at him with hunger in his eyes. He wanted him  _now_.

“Yes… stretch me with two fingers and I’ll be alright.”

Patrick didn’t have to hear it twice. He stayed there, kneeled in front of the other, and started caressing his ass cheeks, sweetly, and then parted them; he shoved a finger inside and Pete boggled. He was so  _tight_. When the bass-player’s body had adjusted to the foreign element, Patrick added a finger, then another; Pete was warm and cozy and Patrick had to keep himself from stroking his prostate with his fingers. “Okay,” Pete said. 

Their positions changed. Pete turned to the wall, face against it; Patrick got up and walked right behind him. Patrick grabbed Pete’s dick with his right hand, while he shoved his left hand in the crack between his cheeks. Pete gasped. “Patrick…”

The singer shoved himself inside all at once. He then waited for Pete to give him a sign to start moving. In the meantime he was just stroking Pete’s cock, careful not to make him come. “Go.”

Patrick pulled himself out then forcefully thrusted in. Pete groaned. Patrick was sweating again. He repeated his movement again and again, hard. He reached the most intimate parts of Pete, causing incredible pleasure to the both of them. Patrick couldn’t hold back anymore, he couldn’t pay attention to the way he moved anymore and he used all the strength he could. He couldn’t think of how much it was hurting Pete, all of that pain due to the absence of lube; he was too close. When he found his prostate, Pete had to bite on his own arm to suppress a scream of pain/pleasure. He thrusted twice more and Pete came with a moan all over his abdomen and thighs. The sight of that was enough to push Patrick over the edge. He came inside of him and he didn’t care that someone may hear his grunts, his moans. He hadn’t had sex like that for ages.

After reviving themselves, both physically and psychologically, they put their clothes back on, not saying a word. Every residual of alcohol in Patrick had been expelled and now he could think straight, and he was happy and flushed. He was tired as hell, too, but not as much as Pete, who was slumped on the floor. Patrick sat next to him.

“You know, Lunchbox…” Pete yawned, “I didn’t know you were… like, experienced.”

Patrick smiled, somewhat flattered. “I told you you underestimate me.”

“We’ll switch next time, though…”

“Oh, so  _I_ ’ll be the one to get you drunk and  _I_ ’ll be the one to drag you somewhere dirty to fuck?”

“Well, actually I…”

Patrick laughed. The fact that there would be a ‘next time’ was enough to make him feel at peace with the world.

**Author's Note:**

> It sucks and I'm sorry this isn't even English omg


End file.
